Nightfall

Since nightfall graced the presence of the first men, we've looked to the stars out of curiosity and the desire to explore. Constant, peaceful objectives that persisted even beyond the ravages of conflict and domination. Then, as if an omniscient will passed out a reward for our actions, the stars answered with a beautiful virus. Gleaming and precious, a gift whose looks betrayed those who look upon it with benevolence. It ascended our technology to new levels, made the impossible real, and cast on the world shadows of a demented curse, planned to divide and drive us into extinction.

It is 2066.

Tiberium has evolved again.

The last war for survival has begun.

May God help us all.

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Hidden in the shadows of a decaying homestead, five figures slinked their way through a tattered corridor. Clad in combat armor that thumped on the creaking floorboards of the place, unhelped by their heavy weapons and an unexpected package, they prayed that the next room they checked was clear of infestation.

"Koda, Arkan, get on point. This is the last room of this place, otherwise we're going to have to scavenge for another hideout."

Their modulators distorted their affirmatives into a deep, rumbling tone. Purposely so, and while these shock troopers are so used to hearing themselves as entirely different entities inside the homestead, their foes trembled with utmost fear. Here though, the shock troopers felt as though they were walking in the footsteps of death. They were not far off from that belief, the reminder was just a few rooms around them.

Two of the soldiers rallied up to the doorframe. In an instant, they trampled over the entrance and illuminated the room with high-powered lights. To their relief, no signs of Tiberium contamination had reached this part of the house, partially devoured by the ravenous mineral. It also offered a surprisingly sombering view of the outside world. Confirming that it was clear, Koda and Arkan waved their comrades in.

"Clear, Kapten. We can rest here for the night."

Grigory Morozov breathed a raspy sigh of relief. He could relax now. They could relax now. He ushered his troopers in, guarding their approach in case of a silent predator behind them. Morozov didn't fear the Tiberian creatures that sometimes prowled the zones, no. His gun would take excellent care of them. He was worried that they might have picked up the scent of their 'prisoner-of-war'. The relatively young captain was fierce in the heat of battle, but he didn't wish to see lives taken unnecessary. With the rest of the shock troopers in, he finally joined them in the temporary shelter, praying that their guns will be silent for tonight.

The elite took some time to settle in. It was hard for Morozov, and some of his comrades to an extent, to relax. Not only because of his straight-from-hell training, of which he questioned as humanity's numbers dwindled in the face of Tiberium, no. He couldn't relax because of how hauntingly serene the homestead's atmosphere had become. It had abandoned by its denizens as Verdun, now turned into a burning, ever violent repetition of history, metamorphosed into a hellish wasteland, eaten away by time and twisted creatures. Such silence, occasionally burst by distant thundering of artillery, made Morozov unconsciously imagine faceless families shuffling through their hideout. It was surreal, really. All of his years spent constantly preparing and fighting a hostile world had deprived him of simple pleasures. While he had no family behind to remember, he did have the stories of his comrades.